Strike True
by dreaming.in.sepia
Summary: Ever since she was a child, Emily Prentiss has become whatever she needs to be to protect herself, and her daemon has too. Ian Doyle has spent his life watching those around him to protect himself and his own. His daemon has too.


Power does not consist in striking with force or with frequency, but in striking true.

HONORE DE BALZAC, Physiology of Marriage

It was Cahira she saw first.

That was the first thing that threw her, because in the report Interpol had complied of all the known information on Ian Doyle there was one glaring omission: his daemon. No one had ever managed to get close enough to her to ascertain exactly what his daemon was. That he had one at all was barely confirmed by the few documented sightings of 'black flashes' and 'a moving shadow'. The fact she hid so easily from viewers implied she couldn't be overly large, but that was everything. Even the 'she' was a supposition, based purely on probability.

It was unusual, to say the least. His daemon's predilection for hiding was one of the many fascinating things about Ian Doyle. Emily had read the report repeatedly, desperately trying to pin down the man. Most criminals weren't difficult to profile. Parent issues, partner issues, natural love for violence – easily manipulated and caught. And, God knows, she'd caught enough. He felt different. It was like a missing jigsaw piece, the centre key, something that would make everything else she knew fall into place to get the full picture. A corner of the sky, forever blank. It was disconcerting, to say the least. But try as she might, the piece remained stubbornly hidden. There was something, something she didn't know. Till then, she could only guess, and Emily Prentiss hated guessing.

Maybe it was because the uncertainty had put her on such high alert that she saw his daemon at all. Or maybe it was just her CIA training kicking in. After all, most people wouldn't have been watching the bar to make sure it was clean for a week before a ten minute meeting. Those people wouldn't have seen the black shape winding its way along the side of the room, sticking to the walls. It could have been anyone's daemon, but somehow Emily knew. The way it hid. The eyes shining out of the shadows. It couldn't be anyone else. That was still all she knew, but it was something. Black, feline – or cat like, anyway – and probably female. Underneath her chair she heard a slight hiss from Surin, and knew he'd spotted her as well, their thoughts as ever in perfect synchrony. She reached her hand down, and he walked into it, subtly alerting her to his change in form.

That was the other reason she was so good at her job. Although she didn't frequently share the information, her daemon was unsettled. It wasn't for lack of trying, but Surin had just never seemed to find the form that fit him. Emily – although she wasn't given to introspection – suspected why. Most of her peers had found their daemons settling permanently in their teenage years. Sure there was variation, but generally by eighteen you were a settled personality, a complete person. You might change over the years (who wouldn't?), but the key things were decided. How you thought, how you spoke, what you felt and what you did about it. Those things were enough to settle. Emily Prentiss, however, had never been the same person for more than a year at a time. Ever since childhood, constantly moving around from country to country, she'd reflected the people around her and never really stopped to reflect on herself. Surin had shifted between animal forms native to whatever country they were in, and in a way, it had made them both feel like they belonged. A chukhar in Pakistan, flitting from branch to branch as she'd learnt to read in their garden under the burning sun. A bald eagle in miniature when they briefly returned to America when she was ten, for the first time she could remember. The border guards had laughed (kindly, but still) and the flash of excitement at returning 'home' she'd felt had quickly turned to embarrassment. Then Rome happened when she was fifteen. When she and Matthew walked into church and the priest's gaze had burned a hole in her (still burning, if she stopped long enough to let it sting), she'd known somehow that she would never – could never – settle. And she was right.

It made her a rarity and an oddity. People, when they found out, looked at her differently. That in itself she didn't mind, but the distrust she did. It made things difficult. So most of the time when she was in public, Surin stuck to whatever form he felt most appropriate. When she was undercover, he carefully picked a form that would accord best with their target, and maintained it until they were out. It gave her a natural advantage when manipulating assets that her superiors found invaluable – if distasteful.

Without looking down, she snorted lightly.

"Don't you think a cat is slightly obvious?"

"If I were a regular house cat, maybe." Her daemon replied.

"And an ocelot is any better?"

"It's more impressive. And threatening without being overt. I think it's perfect."

"You would."

Fahey entered the bar and Emily breathed deeply, taking a drag of her cigarette to cover the steadying motion. This was it. Her last moment as Emily Prentiss. She never felt the loss of her life as anything to be mourned. If anything, it was freeing. It reminded her of her childhood, slipping on another name, another life, another language. Blending yourself to disguise was a skill you never really lost. She was Lauren Reynolds, born March 9th 1975 (name picked to avoid English associations without being too American, year decided as implying both maturity and child bearing potential). She'd lived all over the world (to explain her cultural adaptability and extensive network). She was an orphan (no affiliations). She was a weapons dealer (the best way in to his network, especially considering they'd taken out most of his other connections). Her daemon was a black ocelot named Surin (similar cat form implying cohesive personalities, size intimidating but not overly threatening). She was ready.

Ian Doyle sat down at the table and Lauren Reynolds stared back at him. Fahey left without saying anything, his boa slithering along the floor after him. Evidently he felt his work was done, and she felt a flash of irritation that he couldn't even risk his neck enough to introduce her.

'Your daemon certainly likes to hide. I wouldn't have taken you for the retiring type." She took a final puff from the cigarette then stubbed out the end as she looked into the cerulean blues.

"My daemon likes to observe." He corrected. "I see you have no such compunctions – Miss?"

"Lauren Reynolds. And I wouldn't be so sure. You can observe as well from the centre as the side I've found, Mr -?"

"Ian Doyle." He said, a glint of humour sparkling in his eye.

"Ian? Jack told me you were provisional IRA. But that's a Protestant name, isn't it? Is that how you proved your worth, defending your mother for giving you that name?"

It was, she knew from his notes. One man hospitalised, one with a knife to the thigh and three missing ears thanks to a name on a birth certificate.

But it served its purpose. Doyle leaned back, his eyes appraising her. "You were right Miss Reynolds. I shouldn't be so sure."

"Call me Lauren." She replied, raising an eyebrow slightly and smirking lightly.

"And what is it you do, Lauren?"

"Right now I'm trying to get into business with a former IRA captain. He's gone freelance; you might have heard of him. Valhalla."

"Yeah. I might know him."

She exhaled again, nodding. "Since this is sensitive, peut-être nous devrions discuter en privé." His file had told her he spoke French. His smirk told her more.

"Tu es plein de surprises, dis-donc?"

"Tu n'as pas ideé."

It was done.

There was a storm that night, raging through Boston harbour. As the lightning cracked through the sky, splitting the clouds in two as the flash lit them up shades of yellow, blue and grey, she breathed in the smell. Thick, earthy and dark, she felt it coat her lungs. It felt good.

Ian sat opposite her, carefully pouring out whiskey into a tumbler. They were in his obscenely large hotel room, sitting by the plate glass window overlooking the turbulent sea. The previous hours had been invaluable in intelligence terms, teaching her more than all their Interpol files ever could. His daemon was female, feline and jet black. She was drawing solely closer to the two of them the longer they sat there, but still constantly monitoring the exits at all times. He was well connected and careful about how much he shared, still distrustful but obviously beginning to weaken his iron guard. He had already begun setting up their first deal, dropping breadcrumbs of information to tantalise her.

And he was painfully attractive.

Lauren wasn't an easily influenced woman. Lust was easily dealt with on her side, and a useful tool for bargaining from his. She was here specifically because she was the exact profile of his type: smart, mouthy brunettes. It went without saying he was attracted to her. Her attraction to him mattered less. It added no new information to the mission, it changed nothing. But it did make watching him pour her a fourth glass of whiskey considerably more enjoyable. Maybe other women wouldn't have found him attractive, knowing what he was, what he did, what he could do. This was a man who had killed hundreds, directly and indirectly. His hands were stained with blood and death bone deep. He could turn in a moment and order her death and feel no guilt when he woke up for protecting himself and his own. She knew this. Maybe the mere idea of him should have been wholly repellent to her. But Lauren Reynolds didn't care. She wasn't other women.

So it was that she was still sitting here, on that fourth glass when leaving hours ago would have been perfectly understandable. Would have given her time to adequately prepare and update her contacts, begin gathering supplies for the deal. It had never really been an option though. Surin purred slightly as he handed her the tumbler, winding his way around her legs and leaving the safety of the table to subtly move closer to the dark shadow.

Ian leaned back, appraising her. "So, Lauren, how did you get into this business anyway? A nice girl like you selling guns. Incongruous."

She smirked at him, raising her glass. "Fee saḥitkum."

"Sláinte." He replied

She drank. "I never said I was a nice girl. Nice girls don't become weapons dealers. I suppose it was something I fell into, more than anything. I grew up moving from country to country with my parents, and neither of them ever really had time for me so they didn't know what I was doing or who I was with. They died in a car crash when I was seventeen and I had no other family, so I let myself slip through the cracks. I already had the connections with slightly less – reputable – characters, so I decided to utilise them to my advantage. So far, it's worked rather well."

He nodded, thoughtfully sipping his drink. "Then how come I haven't heard of you before? I've been in this business a fair few years myself."

"And I hadn't head your name until I asked Fahey if he knew anyone who might be able to point me in the direction of Valhalla. I suppose we both like to fly well under the radar, Ian."

"A shame for someone as beautiful as you to be hidden. No one ever tempted you to stop moving, settle down?"

She smirked at him, tipping the glass back again.

"I'm not the marrying type. And I like travelling too much anyway."

He smirked back at her. "Not even if you stayed here, in the good old US of A? Land of the free, home of the brave?"

She shook her head, slightly sad. "I'm only half American and it's never felt like home. I've only lived here for about five years, all combined. Europe always feels more comfortable. And what about you? Why did you leave Ireland?"

She knew perfectly well why he'd left Ireland (the first time at least anyway – bar brawl gone bad), but for a second she really found herself wondering, wanting to know.

"After the agreement, the fight was too difficult to carry on at home. I can do more good building my strength up in other places, ready for when they need me back." As he spoke, the shadow moved again, this time shifting into a pool of light briefly before moving back to darkness. But even that second was enough for Lauren to finally get a sense of the missing jigsaw piece. She looked up at him, and say his eyes levelly considering her.

"Her name's Cahira." He said, calmly. "I know you must have been wondering."

"I can speak for myself." A silvery voice echoed from the corner, and the shadow moved back into the light. She was smaller than expected, lithe and jet black. Lauren wasn't entirely sure, but she thought a Scottish Wildcat. Not what she'd thought.

"Ah, but you so rarely do." Ian replied to her, without looking at his daemon.

"Surin," she heard from behind her, the black ocelot also moving into the light. "Pleasure to meet you."

The two daemons regarded each other warily. "You certainly like to take your time." Surin purred, as the two felines began circling each other.

"I like to know who I'm talking to. Surely that's no crime?"

Surin inclined his head in both acceptance and a sketch of a bow. Cahira hissed lightly, moving forwards almost involuntarily until they were facing each other. Lauren and Ian, however, could look nowhere but at each other.

Far above them, lightning cracked.


End file.
